by Carla Damron
“Good.”
The broken collar bone couldn’t be set, but they’d bound an elastic brace around Byron’s torso to keep it in place. She hoped she could remember how to put it on. The doctor said he should wear it during the day for a few weeks. “He was getting out of the straps again,” she said. “Right before the accident, he was almost out of that seat. I had just gotten him to sit back down when it happened. If he hadn’t . . .” A shiver ran through her, the fear still raw and palpable.
“He’s got to learn,” John said. “He’s got a few more years in that contraption.”
“I shouldn’t have been on the cell phone,” Tonya blurted out. “I was calling work to say I would be late. I shouldn’t have been on the cell.”
John spun around to face her. “You didn’t tell that to the police, did you?”
“It was only a second or two. And my light was green, I’m sure of it.”
“Is that what you told the officer?”
“The policewoman at the hospital asked me about it. She said it wasn’t illegal to use a cell but I shouldn’t, not when I’m driving. She didn’t have to say it though. I think I’ve learned my lesson.”
“But you didn’t get a ticket. They found him at fault. He ran the light.” John’s voice was insistent.
“Yes.” She wasn’t sure why it mattered; the man had been seriously injured. Did he have a family? Children? What was his name? The police officer had told her but now her mind was a complete blank. How could she even check on him if she didn’t remember who he was? The accident report, she remembered. She groped for her purse for the rumpled sheets.
“Is that the paperwork from the wreck?” John asked. “You got an address on that guy?”
“Mitchell Hastings. 127 Lakeshore Drive.” This was in the older section of town, where the houses stretched across lawns like putting greens. When she was a little girl, she had dreamed of a home like that, with a giant front porch with white rocking chairs and a big horseshoe drive. She’d have three children, two boys and a girl, and a husband who adored her and made enough money for her to be a stay-at-home mom. She didn’t envision a two-bedroom bungalow with a postage stamp yard and a mortgage that bled all the money from their account.
But so what if her prince turned out to be a computer software salesman? She and John had built a good life together, though she wished he smiled like he used to. If they could get a handle on the money problems; if they had a little wiggle room at the end of the month. If John’s sales would pick up so he wouldn’t obsess about every dime they spent.
“Lakeshore. That’s in Forest Lake. Bet he had good insurance,” John said.
A wave of panic hit her. “Had? Why did you say had?”
“You said they had to do CPR on him. The guy may well have died. Real life isn’t like TV. CPR only saves a few.”
She stared at him, not wanting to believe. The paramedics had gotten Mr. Hastings’ heart going, but she didn’t know what had happened after. He could have died on the way to the hospital.
They passed the Methodist church, lit by spotlights from all sides, so bright it glowed. She’d been there once for a funeral. She remembered the sun glittering through stained glass windows, the whispered prayers for the bereaved. She wondered if Mr. Hastings went to church. She hoped he had people to pray for him.
“That man got the ticket, Tonya. Not you. It’s his fault this thing happened. Don’t you go blaming yourself, okay?” He reached over and squeezed her hand, his gaze softer now.
“It’s hard not to. I’m glad Byron’s going to be okay.” She turned back to her son. His eyes danced behind closed lids. She hoped he was having happy dreams, not frightening ones about car crashes and fire trucks.
“How’s the nose?” John asked.
Touching it was a bad idea. The swelling had doubled its size. The doctor had said there was a tiny fracture that didn’t need to be set; she’d have two black eyes that would linger for weeks.
“Make sure you keep the bill from the doctor’s office. And we’ll need to hold on to the rental car invoice. I wonder if we need to hire a lawyer.”
“What?”
“A lawyer. The man caused the wreck, he has to pay. That’s how this stuff works.”
She blinked at him. The man might be dead and John was thinking about getting money from him?
“Does your boss do personal injury suits?” John asked. “Or someone else in the practice?”
“No.”
“But maybe he could recommend someone.” John patted her leg as he parked the Civic in the lot beside the rental car agency. Her whole torso was one giant bruise. She shouldn’t complain, though. She could walk and talk and get back to her life. Mitchell Hastings might not have been so lucky.
“You and the little guy wait here. I’ll get the paperwork going.” He climbed out, but then turned around and leaned back in. “I’m getting us a four-door. Or maybe an SUV. We’re not footing this bill, and we deserve something that will keep us comfortable.”
CHAPTER 4
Joe Booker lay still as a gravestone and listened for the Lord’s message. Sometimes He came at dawn, his voice a golden warmth in Joe’s ear, and whispered instructions. So he began every day like this, motionless on his tattered sleeping bag, tuning out the sounds of traffic, of leaves rustling under raucous squirrels, of beeping garbage trucks emptying dumpsters on Main. Because if the Lord wanted to speak, he was ready to listen.
But lately the Lord had been silent. Joe opened his eyes to see the sun just peeking over the horizon. The headlights from cars on Gervais Street glowed like a string of pearls curling into downtown. He heaved himself up, groaning as his bones tried to awaken, and brushed bits of grass from his jeans and his wool pea coat. The moisture from the morning dew made the ground colder than it had been yesterday or the day before. Days were getting shorter, the icy grip of night holding on into the morning. The fading colors on the trees reminded him that fall was nearly done, and winter would be next, which meant nights in the shelter. He’d postpone that as long as he could.
Joe glanced down at his nest, grateful that he had a place so quiet and secluded. The north wall of the church shielded him from the wind, while the branches of the giant live oak offered some protection from the rain. He leaned against the familiar granite headstone that marked the grave of “Wortham Harden Pinckney, born 1848, died 1901, beloved husband and father, loyal servant of Christ.” Mr. Wortham was a good Christian man, letting Joe share his resting place. He felt safe here, like maybe Mr. Wortham looked out for him. That was why the Lord told Joe to seek solace in the tiny old cemetery beside His holy house. Other instructions from the Lord had been slow in coming. Joe knew himself to be unworthy of the Lord’s attention, but if He bothered with a man as undeserving as Joe, there had to be a reason. Maybe he had something important he wanted Joe to do. Maybe all the other voices were a test, and Joe had to be ready to hear His voice—the one that mattered—when it came again.
Joe stood and bent down, reaching for the wool blanket and folding it into a square. He shook the plastic sheet he used for ground cover and wrapped it tight around the blanket, then grabbed the knapsack that was his pillow and pulled out the other flannel shirt, the one he wore in the daytime. When it warmed up some, he’d give himself a bath with the garden hose behind the church school building. It got harder to stay clean when the water got cold, but he did his best. Cleanliness was next to godliness, his mama used to say.
What day was it? Different churches served breakfast on different days, and he wasn’t sure if today was a Washington Street Methodist Thursday or First Baptist Friday. Reverend Bill had given him a schedule once, but he’d lost it. Nice of the reverend to do that, though. And he never said nothing about Joe sleeping in the graveyard, just seemed to accept it like he belonged there. After being run off from everywhere else, feeling welcomed had come as quite a surprise.
Of course, the Lord told him this was his home. Not with words, but with lit
tle gifts left here by his sleeping place. The wool coat appeared last winter. He had thought someone had left it by mistake, but spotted a note safety pinned to it: “For Joe.” Socks and gloves came later. And how many brown paper bags had the Lord left? Too many to count. Sandwiches, crackers, peanut butter, cans of soda pop. Tissues, vitamins, and even a toothbrush.
From the angle of the sun, he figured it was breakfast time. Best to start moseying over to the Methodist church, see if that was where the crowd was. He didn’t mind getting the last scrapings of eggs, grits, or oatmeal if it meant he didn’t have to tangle with the other folks living on the streets. A few he didn’t mind, but most he did.
When he saw no line out the door to the big hall at the church, he kept walking. First Baptist was a few blocks away. Last year, they moved the soup kitchen from the big hall with the basketball hoops to a smaller one in the back. They kept building new parts to the church, and it almost filled the city block.
The salty scent of bacon got Joe’s stomach rumbling as he positioned himself at the end of the breakfast line. He was careful to not get too close to the skinny woman who always wore layers of tattery skirts she got from the trash behind the thrift store.
“You ’bout missed breakfast.” Rag Doll stared at his shirt and at the open door behind him. She never looked anyone in the eye. “They had sausage but it’s all gone now. You might get some grits.”
So this was Rag Doll’s second trip in line. If they caught her, they’d boot her out. “Where you sleeping, Joe?”
She always asked. He never told her. “Around.”
“They may open the winter shelter sooner than last year. I hope they do, nights are getting cold.”
“You up by the river?” he asked. The tent village close to the banks of the Broad was where people who wanted to avoid the police liked to squat. You could get yourself killed real easy if you crossed one of the residents there.
“Some. Last night I was behind the Piggly Wiggly,” she said. “Had it all to myself. You should try it.”
She rubbed her nose with a dirty hand, a bit of scrambled eggs dangling from her hair. He wondered when Rag Doll had last had a bath. Godliness came hard during cold weather.
“You got any money on you?” She always asked him.
He shook his head, thinking about the twenty Mr. Mitch gave him yesterday. Rag Doll wasn’t getting her hands on that.
He inched up to the serving line, not liking the press of bodies as he entered the kitchen area. A woman offered him orange juice, but he shook his head to the offer of eggs and helped himself to two biscuits and a banana. As he reached for a tub of apple sauce, he noticed a big guy wearing a bright red cap stomping up to where the eggs were. Cyphus Lawter, a man full of the devil. Joe hadn’t seen Cyphus in months. Rumor was he’d been busted for trying to kill a man, which Joe could believe; he’d once seen Cyphus at the bus station mugging a guy and running off with his wallet.
When Cyphus spotted Joe, he glared at him with eyes black as tar. Joe didn’t flinch. A man like Cyphus needed to know he wasn’t scared. When the line moved forward, Cyphus took his tray and moved on.
The juice came in a glass. Joe liked it better in a carton or paper cup, because then he could grab the food from his plate and leave. A glass meant sitting down and eating, so he made his way to the farthest table and sat facing the others. You never knew when someone might sneak up on your back. Cyphus Lawter left the dining area with two other men.
“I ain’t eaten yet!” The loud voice belonged to Rag Doll who was tangling with one of the servers.
“I know you did. I’m the one who gave you extra grits!” the woman with the spoon said.
“The line’s about done, and it ain’t like you’re running out! What are you going to do with them biscuits?”
The woman slammed the lid on her pot and jabbed a finger towards the door.
“You don’t gotta be so mean!” Rag Doll yelled. “You ain’t no better than I am!” If she kept that up, they’d call the police, and she wouldn’t be back for breakfast anytime soon. She seemed to settle down, though, running a hand down her skirt and stomping into the dining room where she scouted out the tables, looking for leftovers to swipe. When she spotted him, she crossed to his table.
“I could cut that woman’s butt,” she said.
“You could get yourself tossed in jail,” he answered.
A young fella dressed in blue jeans and a USC sweatshirt moved to the center of the room.
“Excuse me, but I have an announcement,” he said. He had to yell out twice to get people to quiet down. “Looks like we’re in for a very cold night. Temperatures may get in the twenties. So the mayor’s decided to open the winter shelter early. We’ll open the doors at seven p.m. tonight, and everyone has to clear out by eight a.m., just like last year.”
The winter shelter was up by the tracks in what used to be a gymnasium. They set it up like a barracks with cots a few feet apart. No privacy. Smelly, snoring men all around you. But it wasn’t the snoring ones you had to worry about—the ones who didn’t sleep caused the most trouble.
“Please, please get the word out,” the man said. “We don’t want anybody freezing because they had nowhere to go.”
“I don’t think they care a lick if anyone freezes to death,” Rag Doll muttered. “’Cept it makes the city look bad.”
Joe handed her a biscuit, hoping having something to chew on might keep her mouth shut.
She smiled at the food. “You a good man, Joe. Better than most of the pigs around here.”
He wasn’t so sure about that. He tried to be good, to do what the Lord wanted. To be the sort of man the Lord could trust to do what He told him to do. Except sometimes there was so much ruckus in his head, he worried he might not hear the instructions. Sometimes—a lot lately—the devil talked to him, too.
Joe slurped down the rest of the juice, shoved the banana in his jacket pocket, and carried his dishes to the little window leading to the kitchen. He hurried out the side door before Rag Doll latched onto him again. Once outside, he again spotted Cyphus in his red hat, standing close to the street like he expected a ride. A pickup truck pulled up, and a skinny guy with a frayed gray pony tail climbed out. Cyphus handed him a bag; he handed Cyphus something back.
Leave it to Lawter to sell drugs in the backyard of God’s house.
“MITCH.” LENA’S THUMB stroked the cool flesh on his forehead. She stared at his face, looking for a sign that her husband was in there somewhere. She didn’t find it. His skin looked paler than paper. Swelling around his nose and eyes—from the airbag, they told her—seemed to alter his facial structure. When she’d first come to the ER, she had thought it was all a mistake, that this man wasn’t her husband. But then she had taken his hand and touched the familiar callus on his thumb from gardening, and the tiny scar where he cut himself carving the turkey one Thanksgiving. Her husband. Her Mitch.
She longed to have that morning back. She would listen when he complained of heartburn. She wouldn’t have hurried him from the house, but looked him in the eye and recognized that this was different, and rushed him to the hospital where Dr. Burnside would tell her she got him there just in time.
She would have saved him.
Her hand traced down to where the top of his gown gaped open. The bruises were a collage of bright blue and red from the hands that had pounded and pressed to get Mitchell’s heart going again. Nice people, she supposed, trying to give Mitch another chance at life.
“But it didn’t work, did it?” She let her fingertips brush over the electrodes taped to his skin. They’d shaved his chest. Mitch would be horrified to see that. She smiled, but it didn’t hold up.
How did this happen after so many false alarms? And on his way to work; it was a wonder no one was killed. But then, that wasn’t true.
She pulled her hand away, tucking it in her pocket. The ICU room felt arctic. When she’d been admitted here last fall, she could never get warm; the cool a
ir felt like death breathing on her. Mitch had brought her favorite sweater—the purple one her mother had knitted—and wrapped it around her, his gentle fingers buttoning it at her chest where her breast had been. He never flinched, never avoided touching her, even when the bosom that had suckled their children had been sliced from her body. She had loathed seeing herself, the jagged scar, the dent in her puckered flesh, the pale white moon where her nipple had been. How brave Mitch had been to love her in that ugliness when it was the last thing she deserved.
She looked at her wedding ring, at a spot of indigo smeared on the gold from her painting. She had mixed the cadmium blue with the violet, had swirled the colors to that perfect shade, had dipped the tip of the brush and turned to the canvas, that field of waiting white, when the call came. Years ago, but really just a day. She chipped at the paint with her fingernail, wanting to erase it. She’d started wearing the gold band again three months ago. The edema from her chemo had made her fingers so misshapen and grotesque no ring would fit them. And before, there had been that night when she’d torn the ring from her hand and vowed she’d never put it back. How foolish she had been.
She remembered the exact moment she fell in love with Mitch the first time. It was back in high school, an afternoon when Mitch visited her home before baseball practice. They had sat on the front porch, warm air stirred by the lazy blades of a ceiling fan. The iced tea, filled with chunks of lemon, soothed her dry throat. Beside her, Mitch looked uncomfortable on the wooden swing, shifting his legs this way and that, gripping the chain then releasing it. Sweat dotted his chin. The pleasant sweet smell of gardenia wafted over from the neighbor’s yard.
Lena pushed with her feet to set the swing in motion, causing Mitch to spill a little of his drink.
“Sorry.” Lena was not sorry. She pushed harder, laughing as Mitch downed a third of his beverage to prevent more from splashing out.
